


I Found

by hybridempress



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hybridempress/pseuds/hybridempress
Summary: Francis had long ago accepted the fact that in this world, the closest he would ever get to true love was his best friend Alice. Before being drafted into the military in the beginning of World War II, Francis promises to marry Alice when he returns from the war. Unfortunately, God decides to twist Francis' fate in yet another cruel way and introduces him to the passionate and determined Antonio Carriedo, and Francis finds himself head-over-heels for someone that he could never hope to be with.





	I Found

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We'll Always Have Paris](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/229768) by yosb. 



> Well, what do you know! This is my 50th fanfic that I've published on this website! I think that calls for some celebration!  
> Hopefully I'll actually be able to be consistent with this fic and finish it in a decent amount of time. I know I have like 5 other series that I haven't touched in almost a year and I swear I haven't forgotten about them, it's just that my muse has been all over the place for a long time.  
> I'm going to work really hard on this fic, though, and hopefully I'll be able to pick up my other series again soon.I really hope that you guys enjoy reading this fic because I know I'm gonna have a helluva time writing it.  
> Thanks for sticking with me, let's have another crazy adventure B)c

The word “war” doesn’t mean anything to you when you are three years old. Violence is a concept that has not yet been introduced to your naive little brain. Hatred is a construct that is unfathomable to your underdeveloped soul.

You’re too wrapped up in your own imagination to eavesdrop on the grownups while they are speaking in hushed voices to one another. You wouldn’t understand what they were saying even if you tried. A newspaper is just a stack of thin sheets filled with so many words that your tiny little brain couldn’t comprehend the fact that someone would want to sit down and read all of it in one go. And yet, your father always becomes so engrossed while he’s reading it that he acts as though you don’t exist while his eyes are trailing across its pages. You don’t know why your mother seems to come out of her bedroom looking more beaten down and weary than the day before while your father looks as though he has accomplished something great. Your mother brushes you off every time you ask her why she looks so hurt.

But when you are three years old you can know how it feels to miss someone you love. You can remember standing on your front porch in your mother’s arms and waving to your father as he boarded a bus and abandoned the two of you a month after your birthday. You can remember how he promised that he would be back home before you knew it, but how the gift you received on your sixth birthday was the knowledge that your father was dead. 

There weren’t any tears that accompanied that revelation. At least, none that Francis could remember. Not from him. Not from his mother. Not from anyone they knew. To this day, Francis still wondered why that was. 

Maybe it was because Mssr. Bonnefoy had never been much of a father to begin with. Sure, six-year-old Francis could remember having a father, but couldn’t remember anything about what the man was like. He could only see his father’s face in pictures. He had no recollection of the man ever playing with him, or teaching him anything. He could remember being scolded a few times but otherwise could not even remember the sound of his father’s voice. A father was more of a concept to Francis than an actual person. An idea rather than a physical entity. 

Maybe it was because his mother seemed so much happier after he had left. Sure, she always seemed frightened, but that was how every grownup seemed to feel after Francis’ father left. A lot of things changed after Francis’ father left, both in his and his mother’s lives as well as the lives of the people who were closest to them. But somehow, his mother seemed stronger now that his father wasn’t around. She seemed free, and determined, and she came out of her room each day looking more well-rested and more beautiful than the day before. A good husband was even more of a ghost to her than a good father was to Francis. 

The word “war” means a little bit more to you when you are eight years old. It’s 1919 and the Parisians were finally beginning to rebuild their lives without fear of being bombed again. Francis’ mother had to go to work because his father wasn’t around to take care of them anymore. Francis was finally old enough to understand that his father died at the hands of a German soldier while trying to protect the rest of Europe. Francis was told that his father died a hero, but was it selfish to wish that he had died a real father instead?

_Les Années Folles_ were a happy time that brought the spirit of France back to life after it had been nearly destroyed by the war. Women were becoming more free, media and entertainment were expanding faster than ever before, and Francis and his mother learned how to dance along to the music that they were able to hear over their new radio set as well as what they played over their old record player. But as well as the twenties treated Francis and his mother, the people around them were not so kind. 

Hatred starts to change the world for you when you are fourteen years old. Your mother works hard every day of her life to give you the best life that she can, but she will never be anything more than “Bonnefoy’s widow”. The men she works with try to coax her into falling into bed with them, and when she says no they slap her or spit at her feet. Everyone felt sorry for her because her husband was dead, she was a prude, and suddenly overnight the entire city seemed to know that her son was queer. 

Francis had always known that maybe there was something abnormal about the fact that he loved boys, but no one had ever told him that it was _wrong._ No one had ever told him that he would be sent to the principal’s office for writing poetry about two men who were lovers and reading it aloud to the class as part of a school assignment. No one had ever told him that his friends would start to avoid him when they found out. No one had ever told him that he and his mother would be forbidden to enter their church anymore. No one had ever told him that it would be one more reason for people to disrespect his mother. 

The worst part of it all was that when Francis asked his mother why, she couldn’t even tell him. All she could tell him was that it was a sin but she hardly understood why, and she didn’t understand why that sin, of all other sins, was the one sin that could condemn you no matter how strong your faith was. And if his mother couldn’t even understand, then how could Francis ever hope to? 

All Francis knew was that he was never to speak about his sexuality again. No one else was allowed to know. It was a part of himself that he needed to suppress or do away with, even though neither he nor his mother thought it was fair that he should have to change. Was this something that even _could_ be changed?

Violence is a common occurrence when you are twenty years old. Francis and his mother had been living in England for five years. They needed to start a new life in a new place where no one knew who they were, and where they could be respected, and where they didn't have to live in fear. But they were always hyper-aware of what happened to the people who were less fortunate than them.

The Slump took a toll on everyone, no matter what their social and economic status was. The Great Depression had started in the United States but it had infected the rest of the world rather quickly. The UK hadn't thrived in the 20s like France and America had. Maybe moving to a new country to start a new life wasn’t as good of an idea as it could have been. Or maybe they would have had to work themselves to the bone either way. 

It was easier for them than it was for some people. His mother had a good job and managed to keep it. He worked as hard as he could, shifting from job to job, trying to find something that he could keep. They were just two people, and doing away with the things that they didn’t need and cutting back on the things that they did need was enough to let them survive. But the Slump wasn’t the only thing that was beating people black and blue.

Francis took it upon himself to shroud himself in masculinity unlike he had ever done before. He always held himself tall and proud. He taught himself to be witty, quick, and sarcastic so that he always had something to say, and so that he always had a way to take control of a conversation. He began doing odd-jobs for his mother and their neighbors that required muscle work so that he could prove his worth and build his body. He was a gentleman. He flirted with women, but only by telling them what he observed to be true. No one would ever have suspected that he never had an eye for any of them.

The hardest part of it all, though, was turning the other way whenever he saw someone who was like him. The words “queer” and "homo” seemed to be more popular here than they were in France. They were thrown around as insults to any man who was considered too feminine, or too much of a wuss. If you defended a man who was accused of being gay, then you must be gay, too. Maybe you were in love with each other. Sometimes, you were lucky if you were left alone without a scratch. Worst case scenario, you couldn't get up and walk away by the time everyone else was finished beating you. 

But Francis was never caught up in things like that. He minded his own business. He romanced the girls. He didn't pay a second glance to anyone who deviated from what the “norm” should be.

Love takes on a new meaning when you are twenty-five years old. Francis met the second most beautiful girl in the world, surpassed only by his mother. She had a personality that was much like his own. She was independent. She was witty. She was sarcastic. She was strong. She was stubborn. She was confident. Her name was Alice. But Francis would never be able to love her the way that the two men in his poem had loved each other. 

Alice was his best friend. He trusted her almost as much as he trusted his mother. Almost. But she was never allowed to know that he wasn’t in love with her. She was never allowed to know that he would have been in love with her if she were a man. 

But what was the point in dreaming about something that he could never have? She was in love with him, and he loved her, so why shouldn’t he play along? He would never be able to love someone more than he loved her and be happy. It was better to spend the rest of your life with your best friend than to be alone. 

War can change your life more drastically than anything else ever could when you are twenty-eight years old. Everyone knew that another war was about to begin when news started to spread that the Germans had attacked Poland unprovoked on September 1st, 1939. Most men knew that conscription was imminent for them as soon as the Prime Minister declared war on the Germans two days later. But nothing could have prepared Francis for the way he heard his mother cry after she brought the day’s mail into the house and saw the military’s letter that was addressed to her son.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: This fic is vaguely based off of a song called "I Found" by Amber Run, which is its namesake (despite the fact that the song is very modern and thus would not have existed in the 1940s lmao)
> 
> However, it is also inspired by my favorite frain art in the entire world by an artist called yosb on Tumblr. I've linked to the source of the picture as the inspiration for this fic. If I hadn't seen that picture before I guarantee I never would have gotten the idea for this fic.


End file.
